


Humiliation

by veiledndarkness



Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 01:15:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veiledndarkness/pseuds/veiledndarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s falling apart, he’s so far from his life before and he’s losing his mind, but he just <i>can’t</i> stop. Written for twd_kinkmeme on Livejournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: _Rick is losing it, and he knows it. He's becoming more sick and twisted. But he can't stop, and Daryl just won't say no to him._

He’s three ways from fucked but he can’t seem to stop. 

It doesn’t help that Daryl won’t say no to him, that he won’t hesitate when Rick gives him a command, no matter how depraved it might be and it’s damned intoxicating to see the man bend over at his request. He hates how good it feels to unleash his anger on someone.

He can’t remember when it started exactly, though he thinks it was around the time that his suspicions were confirmed, about the moment that he heard the halted words dragged from his wife’s lips, her admission to what he’d known almost immediately after he’d arrived in the quarry and there’s fresh anger licking along his skin at the memory. 

His wife, his best friend and God, he can _picture_ them together, see them pressed skin to skin and his fingers curl into his palms, digging bloody gouges. There’s so much raw fury burning through him and he can’t let it go even if he has to choke it down to face his group. 

And with it, with those words of guilt, he thinks it was somewhere around then that he found a deep longing to hurt someone, to rip into them and punish them in the way that he couldn’t bring himself to do to Lori or to Shane, bubble to the surface.

 

Daryl never refuses him. 

 

He has him pushed up against the bars of the empty cell door, forehead pressed to the gritty metal bars, fingers gripping the bars above his head for leverage as he drives the length of his cock into him. Daryl’s hard muscle and dirt stained skin, but he can see the smoother spots between the scars that litter the man’s back. He’s fond of pushing the worn fabric of Daryl’s shirt up in one fist, licking and biting over the soft skin surrounding each mark as he thrusts.

He isn’t gentle with him, he doesn’t kiss his mouth the way he would’ve with Lori once upon a time and he doesn’t whisper sweet nothings in Daryl’s ear. He’s this side of rough with him, fingers grasping and bruising, teeth sharp and slick as he bites at Daryl’s shoulder, drawing a faint trickle of blood from him as he comes. 

It started with having Daryl kneel before him, his wet mouth a tight, hot seal around his cock, relieving him of the tension that coils at the bottom of his spine. He’s good at it, better than Rick had expected and there’s this gleam to Daryl’s eyes when he gives him a demand, a look of understanding and need that mix together in the dim light of the prison.

And now…now he’s bending him over the nearest objects, uncaring of what sounds travel to the cell block that the group is holed up in. He uses him as roughly as he wants, marks him with fresh bruises, and no request is ever refused. He can only feel the anger abating when he’s buried deep inside Daryl, fingers clamped tightly to the man’s neck, to his wrists, forcing him down harder and harder, demanding that he submit, that he pay for what they did to him and God help him, Daryl just _does_ it, every fucking time. 

He bends down, stands up, kneels on all fours, lets Rick cuff him to the bars and he only stares at him, panting for air, his own cock hard and bobbing between his sweat slick thighs, legs apart and ready for him. 

He doesn’t recognize his face in the bathroom mirror, not when he’s got his hands over Daryl’s fingers, driving into him with renewed anger, shoving him up against the cold sink ledge and the mad gleam to his eyes is enough to steal his breath. He’s losing it, losing his control and all the anger is swarming under the surface, choking the air from his lungs, and Daryl…Daryl’s watching him in the mirror, lips parted as he shudders toward his own orgasm and as Rick comes, he feels his sanity splitting apart at the seams. 

 

Daryl never refuses him. 

 

He can’t look his wife in the eye, can’t forget how Shane’s blood had spilled over his fingers that night, so horribly warm in the cool night air, can’t let the rage abate, not when Daryl submits to him like this, day after day, taking the punishments, taking the anger he won’t unleash on anyone else and he hates himself, hates his lack of control and how good it feels to use Daryl this way. 

He’s falling apart, he’s so far from his life before and he’s losing his mind, but he just _can’t_ stop.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt on twd_kinkmeme on Livejournal: _Rick keeps fucking Daryl once he's gotten a bit better concerning his grief with Lori - now he's trying to fuck away the guilt, too. I want to see the scene where he finally goes to far, and something happens - maybe he's so rough that Daryl starts to bleed real bad, or throws up, or is somehow pushed to the point of crying; something where Rick realizes why it's not just harmless sex, that their relationship makes it too easy to hurt the man, that Daryl isn't going to protect himself from him._
> 
> I felt that this prompt mirrored the first chapter nicely, so hopefully they mesh well.

He never meant to go this far.

 

He lies to himself too frequently these days and now, now the truth is on the concrete floor, huddled at his feet. 

There’s a rattling sound in his chest and he’s startled by the realization that it’s the sound of his own breathing, raspy and choked and he can’t look away from the blood that’s staining his fingers, from the streaks grimed into his skin and he can’t remember what it was like to be washed clean on a daily basis.

He doesn’t remember when his need for punishment merged into _this_ , this burning need to bury his guilt, his self-hatred, when he’d stopped trying to piece together his rationalizations and began revelling in the way Daryl’s spine arched as he bent him down to the ground, when he’d gloried in the muted grunts of pain that were dragged from the man under him. 

There’s little movement beneath him. He can see the faintest rise and fall of skin and there’s a lightning bolt of fear coursing through him, one of fear and relief and he’s trembling at the thought that this time might be the last…that this time he might have gone too far.

 

He never meant for this to happen. 

He hates how easily he can manipulate Daryl. He hates that Daryl won’t refuse him. 

 

With fear choking his throat, he crouches down and there’s a hesitation in his hands that he despises as he reaches for the limp body that’s still curled in a heap, dirtied with streaks of blood and smudges of dirt. His eyes track the marks that mar the man’s body, old and newer ones, the scratch marks, the brilliant bruises that litter his skin, bursts of colour that were left by Rick’s very hands, the ones that can only skim over Daryl’s side, hovering above the proof of what he’s done.

There’s nausea rising now, mixing with the fear, and guilt, God, it claws at him, claws at his mind and he utters a shaky laugh, but it’s not a laugh, not at all. It’s a sound of agonized hysteria and he clenches his hands, thinking of Lori and how he’d tried to punish her by punishing Daryl and how good it had felt to slide into Daryl’s willing body, thrusting until the rage had dulled in his mind. 

He’s touching him now, rubbing at Daryl’s shoulder, his panicked breaths obscenely loud in the space that was once the laundry room of the prison. He can see a fluttering of movement behind Daryl’s eyelids and there’s only a trickle of relief fighting through at that. The metallic scent of blood floods his nose and he shakes Daryl harder, whispering his name again and again, demanding that he wake, that he be alright, please, just…please be alright. 

 

He never meant to lose control like this.

 

There’s blood, so much blood. It coats Daryl’s skin in sticky trails, coating his wrists where the cuffs had dug in, staining his skin right down to his elbows, and the raw, abraded skin circling his wrists makes Rick fight back another wave of nausea. There are fresh bruises on his neck, fingerprint sizes that stand out accusingly and Rick rests his hands there for the briefest of seconds, matching up each finger before yanking his hands back like they were burning. 

He knows what it had felt like in the moment, to hold the man’s life in his hands, to feel his heated skin under his fingers and as he’d taken him, harder and harder, feeling Daryl’s body tense and strain under the near vicious assault, he’d felt a surge of raw hatred for himself and then it’d been a flash of white, a moment of absolute emptiness before he’d come to, standing over Daryl’s naked and battered body. 

Daryl never refuses him. He hurts him, again and again, but Daryl is loyal to the end and he comes back every time, loyal even when his face is marred by bruises. He kneels back down for Rick, submitting for him, looking back at him over his shoulder; his lips turned up the tiniest bit at the corners, a hint…a ghost of a smile for him.

 

He never meant for this to happen, not like this.

 

Rick rocks a little on his heels, tears burning under his eyelids. Daryl shifts beneath him, rolling onto his back, his cuffed hands resting on his stomach, the metal winking at Rick in the dim light. He’s breathing slow pained breaths, his lips split from biting down on them. He opens his eyes and Rick feels his mind flex ( _fracture_ ) at the way Daryl’s looking at him, those blue eyes that scream of pain and hints of fear, and yet, he’s lying there, watching Rick watch him.

There’s a jagged lump in Rick’s throat, one that he can’t quite swallow over. He’s guilt stricken and there’s tears prickling, dangerously close to falling, and he can’t breathe. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not like this, not this far. His need for release, to unburden his mind of guilt and anger, this wasn’t what he wanted but the words are stuck, buried by the lump that makes it hurt to breathe.

He tries to speak and nothing comes out. Daryl exhales slowly and stretches his arms up and over his head, grimacing with pain. The cuffs rattle and Rick jerks at the sound. Daryl’s thighs are slick, blood smeared as well and Rick clasps a hand to his mouth, stifling the babbling apology that wants to burst through. The words are meaningless. How does one apologize for brutalizing someone else?

Daryl says nothing. He only looks at Rick, eyes too bright in the dimmed room, and there’s a second where Rick feels the urge to kiss him, to lick away the droplet of blood where Daryl had bitten through his bottom lip. There’s thoughts of Lori in the back of his mind ( _she’s never gone from there…_ ), and he remembers back to when kissing her had felt good and how he’d loved her even when he couldn’t bring himself to look at her directly and God, it burns to remember how he’d treated her. 

There’s a whisper quiet exhale of his name and Daryl’s struggling to move, to sit up despite the pain he’s clearly in. He’s moving, slowly…stiffly, and he gets up to his knees, hands and knees, a soft grunt of pain passing his lips as he shifts, _presenting_ himself and Rick hates the bolt of arousal that scorches a path through his blood. 

And it’s with sickening clarity that he sees it, sees the horrible truth of all this, that he’s so fucked and he can’t stop and Daryl won’t stop him. It’s never enough and he can’t stop, he just fucking can’t stop, not when it feels so good to be inside him, feeling him react, not when he feels an emotion that he can’t define when Daryl comes to his side with that knowing look in his eyes. 

He has no word for what this is, this thing that they have and he’d be hard pressed to call it a relationship and he feels guilt every time Daryl shows up with new bruises, every time he limps back to the group, every time someone tries to ask him what he’s doing. It’s too easy, so goddamned easy to hurt him, to lose control and he burns with the shaming knowledge that he could be capable of such acts and sometimes he wishes that Daryl would refuse his demands, that he would say no and leave and that would be that. 

 

He never meant to go this far but Daryl won’t say no, even if he bleeds, even if he’s in agony and that’s too much power for Rick to handle, too much for him to control. Daryl won’t walk away, he _won’t_ say no and Rick can’t either. 

 

Daryl’s looking back at him and Rick thinks he sees a gleam of tears in the man’s eyes for a split second and the urge to be gentle for once is there, quick and fleeting in his mind. He rests his hand to Daryl’s thigh, his hand on the sticky blood covered skin and he closes his eyes, guilt and shame and arousal circling and circling until he wants to scream. 

His thumb brushes back and forth over Daryl’s skin and he opens his eyes, meeting Daryl’s gaze. He kneels beside him, his hands cupping Daryl’s face, asking silently for forgiveness, and there’s something, something unreadable in the man’s eyes, something that speaks of years of abuse and hurt from those he’d loved and that maybe he doesn’t know how to walk away any more than Rick knows how to go back to a time when he wasn’t consumed with rage and guilt. 

Rick tries to smile but it’s a weak one. Daryl lets his gaze drop and he moves a little closer to him, forgiveness as clear then as ever and Rick feels the tears burn his eyes anew. He doesn’t deserve this kind of loyalty.

 

He never meant to let this happen. He never meant to hurt anyone. Not like this.


End file.
